


where the grass is greenest

by thispieceofmind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Little!Direction, M/M, they're wee babes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofmind/pseuds/thispieceofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry and louis meet at the park, and harry asks louis a lot of questions because he knows everything, of course. he’s <em>seven</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where the grass is greenest

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something really quick that I thought of at two in the morning when I couldn't sleep. It's for Cass, because Cass asked for fluff and this is fluff. In case you didn't realize after I said fluff for the first time. (I'm sorry why do I make notes.)

Harry meets Louis at the park. It’s a sunny spring day, and Harry’s holding his mum’s hand as they go to their special spot in the grass to lay out their blanket. Harry’s got his favorite navy cardigan on because the wind is blowing, and he wishes he had a hat to pull it back because his fluffy hair is all in his eyes. His mum smooths it back, and Harry’s smile falls as he looks up. 

There’s a boy in his spot, and _he’s_ with _his_ mum, and Harry doesn’t really like that. His eyes grow a little glassy, and he tugs on his mother’s hand. 

“Mummy,” he whines. “There’s a boy in our spot. That’s _our_ spot.”

Anne smiles softly and smooths his hair again. “It’s all right, love. I’m sure they’re nice people. How about we go ask if we can share?”

Harry smiles again. When they reach the spot where the grass is the greenest, there’s a boy staring up at him with eyes as bright as the sky and one of his bottom teeth missing. Harry likes him. He’s got a grin that’s happy, and Harry thinks happy is his favorite feeling. 

“Hello!” Harry greets. 

“Hi!” the boy says back. 

“We were wondering if we could share this spot on the grass here. It’s the best and Harry’s favorite,” Harry’s mum says. 

“Of course,” the other woman says back. “Sit wherever you’d like. I’m Jay. Louis, introduce yourself.” 

“M’name’s Louis! I’m seven!”

“Hi, Louis! I’m Harry. I’m five. Do you like Goldfish?”

Louis’ toothy grin says it all, and that’s how Louis and Harry meet at the park. 

***

Then, it’s a tradition. Every single Saturday, they meet up at the park and have a picnic. Harry thinks Saturday is his favorite day. Every time, there’s sandwiches cut into triangles and iced tea in a to-go cup. Harry brings the Goldfish and Louis brings the pretzels. (But always the ones that are squares because they make good beds for the fishies.) 

Harry always asks Louis questions, because Louis is seven and he obviously knows everything. Anyone with blue eyes and two years on him has got to have the answers to his questions. He always answers, too, and Harry might just love him for it. 

“What do you like better, the fishies or the pretzels?” Harry asks one day from their red blanket as he pretends to make a Goldfish swim in the sky. 

“Both at once!” Louis exclaims immediately. He sits up at once, crossing his legs and dragging Harry up, as well. “Zayn told me about it.” (Harry doesn’t know Zayn, but apparently he’s got cool Power Rangers, so Harry likes him.) “You gotta try!” He puts a fish resting on top of a pretzel bed into Harry’s waiting hands. They both chew happily, and Harry continues from then on to preach that the goldfish-pretzel combination is the best thing to ever happen to him. (Other than Louis, of course.)

***

There’s a spot right next to their blanket where the grass is always soft. In the spring, there’s wildflowers, and Harry likes to run his hands through the stems and the blades of grass. Often times, he and Louis will sprawl out on their backs and stare up at the sky, wind tussling their hair and little hands gripping at each other. 

“Why is the sky blue?” Harry asks one day. 

Louis takes a moment to think about it. “Dunno, Harry. Maybe it’s sad.”

Harry studies the puffy white clouds that are moving slowly above him and the happy sun that makes him squint up above. “It doesn’t look sad.”

“Maybe it just really likes blue,” Louis offers. “Sometimes it gets pink and purple, too. Like at night or really early in the morning.” Harry didn’t know the sky did that in the morning, but he likes when it happens at night. He likes the rainbows, too, after the storms.

“I know an animal that does that! The changey color thing. A ch-cha-camelon!” He smiles in satisfaction when he gets the word out, proudly looking up the sky where a cloud that looks like a top hat floats on by. 

Louis titters at him, squeezes his thumb. “No, Harry. A chameleon.”

Harry’s face lights up, and even with the sun shining on his smooth skin he seems to get ten times brighter. “Like the Pokemon?”

“That’s Charmander!” Louis exclaims, thoughts immediately running to the little orange thing with the fiery tail. 

Harry crosses his arms where he lays, furrows his brow. “Same thing.”

And Louis doesn’t argue, because it might as well be. 

***

There’s a swing set at the park that Harry has a little bit of an infatuation with. He likes to pump and get really high, and sometimes if he’s lucky, Louis will push him because he usually doesn’t go on the swings, unless Harry asks him with his big smile. Louis prefers the monkey bars and the fireman’s poles because he always seems to be jumping off of things. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen him without a plaster somewhere on him. (Harry is usually never without a plaster, either. Mostly because whenever Louis gets hurt, he demands to be hurt, too, so his mum slaps one on his elbow or his knee, _and_ because the bandages usually have Power Rangers on them. He loves Power Rangers.) 

But the swing set has one place where two birds always sit and chirp back and forth at each other, letting out sweet songs of spring and pretty melodies that sometimes Harry wishes he could understand. 

“Hey, Lou?” Harry asks as he drags his feet back and forth in the wood chips under the swings. 

“Yeah, Hazza?” Louis answers, head facing down as he dangles from his folded legs on the monkey bars. Deep in Harry’s chest he get’s that funny feeling that he might fall. He thinks his mum calls it worry but he doesn’t really understand it yet. 

He looks back up again and pumps his feet to get going. “Why don’t the birds sing at night?”

“Maybe they’re scared of the dark!” Louis says sincerely, and Harry looks back at him to see his face red and his arms reaching for the bars to pull himself back up. Harry thinks about his answer, and it seems pretty reasonable. He was afraid of the dark once, too, but that was like, six months ago and he was still four so it doesn’t really count. 

“I’d like to hear the birdies sing at night,” he says anyway, because it’s true and he doesn’t know why he would say anything but the truth. 

“Maybe they sleep, like you,” Louis murmurs, now on top of the monkey bars with his legs tangled up and his hair in his eyes. 

Harry thinks about it. “Maybe,” he decides. “Do you think they dream?” he wonders. 

Louis giggles and jumps down rather unceremoniously from the monkey bars, stumbling forward a little, but skipping towards Harry and putting his warm hands on Harry’s shoulders. He gives him a push. “Sure they do, Hazza. Everyone dreams.”

And Harry is satisfied with that, so he hums and lets himself be pushed by Louis’ hands on his lower back as he sunnily kicks his feet into the air. 

***

There’s a creek down the hill that their spot in the grass is on, and if their mums sit on the bench under the pergola then they’re allowed to play by the water and inspect the stream that trickles past them. It’s one of Harry’s favorite spots at the park, because there’s a gap in the trees that lets the light filter in and makes Louis’ hair go all shiny and pretty, and there’s lots of minnows in the stream that swish their tails through the water and let little bubbles out through their mouths. 

They jump from rock to rock, and more than once do they wind up with plasters on their knees, but tears are always wiped away and there are two flat stones that happen to perfectly fit their bums. Harry looks down in the clear water, and the hair hangs in his eyes but he hears Louis breathing next to him, so he figures it’s all right if he can’t see everything, because Louis is there to see what he can’t. 

He watches the fish motor around through the creek, and a thought dawns upon him. “Lou?” he says. 

“Yeah, Harry?” Louis responds with a smile, using the stick in his hand to stir up mud at the bottom of creek, making it cloudy and dirty. 

“Why don’t the fishies come on to land?” Harry wonders. He sees them swim, and sometimes Harry goes in the water, so he doesn’t get why sometimes the fish don’t come on the land. 

“It’s ‘cause they got gills, silly! They can’t breathe air like we do,” Louis responds easily, growing bored with his twig and snapping it in half, throwing the pieces to the other side of the stream and sitting back on his haunches. 

“So they breathe water?” 

Louis nods, a piece of his stringy fringe falling into his eyes, only to be fixed seconds later, when a blown a stream of air didn’t do it for him. 

“Why don’t we do that?” Harry asks. 

“‘Cause we got lungs!” Louis answers simply. 

And Harry doesn’t really understand what _gills_ or _lungs_ are, but when they go to eat the triangle sandwiches in the spot where the grass is greenest, he tells his mummy that he wants gills to let him breathe the water like the fishies, and he smiles all big when Louis backs him up, nods convincingly as he pokes at Harry’s neck where the gills would be, saying that he would like a matching pair as well, for his birthday. 

(Harry doesn’t mention that it’s in December, but he knows what he’ll write all big and green at the top of his Christmas list when the time comes.)

***

When it gets warmer, Harry’s got his shorts on and his shirt with JACKWILLS on it in bright blue, and he notices the ladybugs. They’re always on his legs or the blanket, and once, he found one in Louis’ hair! He likes them best when they’re orange. He loves orange. But he watches them walk around and fly above his head, and one day, a question dawns on him, one that  simmers beneath his skin, willing Harry to recognize it. 

“Lou?” he questions. 

“Yeah, Haz?”

“Are there boy ladybugs?” Harry watches as the ladybug with two black spots and red wings crawls over his fingertips, and he turns his wrist so it doesn’t fall. 

Louis scoffs. “Of course not, Harry. They’re _lady_ bugs.”

And well, that makes sense. Of course. 

“Did you know,” Louis starts, and Harry lights up immediately because he _loves_ when Louis tells him new things, “that a ladybug is as old as the number of spots it has on its back?”

Harry gasps. “Really?” He looks at the ladybug that is now perched on the knot of his string bracelet. The two spots are still there. “Mine’s only two! She’s only a baby.”

Louis giggles and looks at the one on his leg. “Mine’s six! Older than you, Haz!”

Harry pouts, but laughs, too, frowning a little when his bug flies off, but hoping it has a fun life with butterflies and stuff. Butterflies are fun.

“I like ladybugs, Louis. They’re pretty.”

Louis stays quiet for a moment. “Like what else?”

“Flowers,” Harry says right away. “My mum. Triangle sandwiches when they’re all nice on the plate before we eat them. Ponies. The sky. The stream. Our green grass. You. You’re pretty pretty, Lou.”

“Oi!” Louis squeaks. “Only girls are pretty, Harry! I’m _handsome._ ”

Harry hums. “I think anything could be pretty. You’re pretty to me, Louis.”

Louis doesn’t say anything back, but he’s got his think-y face on, and Harry’s got a new ladybug on his knee, so everything’s all right. 

***

“Come on, you bugger!” Louis shouts as they trek down the hill. 

“Booger!” Harry squeaks. “I’m not a booger. Bogeys are gross.” He sticks his tongue out and follows Louis to the creek. 

“Bugger, Haz. Like a little silly goose! You’re a silly goose!” 

“You’re a silly goose, too,” Harry pouts. “Are we both gooses?”

“Geese, Harry,” Louis corrects.

Harry stops and pouts. “Geese, gooses, whatever.” He crosses his arms, and Louis looks up from the bottom of the hill. He goes back to where Harry is standing and takes his hand, making him unfold his arms and tangling their fingers. 

“C’mon, Haz. We can just sit! Like, on the bench, how our mummies do.”

“Okay,” Harry sighs, and he squeezes Louis’ hand as they walk down the hill in the high grass. They sit on the bench with their thighs pressed close and their feet dangling from the above the ground. There’s a lot of clouds today, and Harry misses the sun. He looks at Louis. 

“Louis?” he asks. 

“Yeah, Harry?”

“Do you love me?” Harry says softly. 

“Of course I do, you booger!” 

“Hey!” Harry squawks. “You said it was bugger!”

“But know you’re a booger because you’re being extra silly. ‘Course I love ya, Harry!”

“Good,” Harry says. “‘Cause I love you, too.”

“Good,” Louis repeats, and he smacks a kiss on Harry’s cheek and jumps up, pulling on Harry by their still-twined hands and saying, “The sun’s come out to play!” because it just so happens to be peaking out of the clouds and illuminating the spot where the grass is the greenest. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Your comments and kudos mean everything to me.


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